


bad dreams

by Duck_Life



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Abuse, Deadlights (IT), Gen, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Nightmares, Phone Calls & Telephones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-26
Updated: 2019-09-26
Packaged: 2020-10-28 12:48:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20778818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Duck_Life/pseuds/Duck_Life
Summary: Every night since leaving Derry, Beverly dreams about her friends dying.





	bad dreams

_ She sees them, all of them, grown-up and tall and different. Their faces swim in front of her vision, distorted and warped as if she's looking at them through water. She sees Mike, frantic and full of energy, his lips mouthing something she can't make out. She sees Richie, his glasses spotted with blood. She sees Eddie screaming something. _

_ She sees Stan, reclining in a bathtub. He looks calm, at peace. He reaches for a razor blade. The water runs red… _

Beverly wakes up with a startled gasp, her blankets in a tangle around her. At first, it takes her a second to register where she is— her aunt's house. Portland. Not Derry, not Derry anymore. 

And her dream— if it was a dream— felt so real that her hands are still shaking. "Stan," she mumbles, clambering downstairs to use the phone. A glance at the clock tells her that it's dawn in Maine. Stan  _ might  _ be up, might be getting an early start and going outside to see the birds that aren't out later in the day, might be 

( _ dead, he might be dead in the bathtub _ ).

Beverly dials his number with trembling fingers. She just needs to hear his voice, needs to know he's alright. 

Someone picks up on the first ring. "Hello?"

"Stanny," Bev says, relief surging through her. "You're alright."

"Yeah?" Stan says. He doesn't even sound tired. She can imagine him with a cup of coffee or cocoa, staring out the kitchen window at the bird feeder in the Uris backyard. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"I just… I had a horrible nightmare," Beverly says. Now that she's actually on the phone with him, she feels kind of silly. Of course it was just a dream. Of course it wasn't real. "You were… I just wanted to call and… I don't know. I guess I just missed you guys." She decides against telling him that she dreamt of him dead in a tub. 

"Oh," Stan says. There's movement in the background, like he just sat down. "Well, we miss you too, Bev. How's Portland?"

“It’s… not Derry,” she says. It occurs to her that can mean both good and bad. Portland has none of the things she hated about Derry— the bullies, her father, the fucking clown. But it also doesn’t have her friends. 

“There’s nowhere like Derry,” Stan confirms. “You know, Derry may be a shithole…” 

Bev waits, but he doesn’t say anything. “Derry may be a shithole, but?”

“No, that’s it.” She laughs, and it’s like she can  _ hear  _ Stan grinning. “Hey, Rich and I found some old beanbag chairs in his folks’ attic. We’re thinking of putting them in the clubhouse.”

“That sounds great,” Bev says. “Then Richie and Eddie won’t have to share that old hammock.”

“Shh, if Richie figures that out he’ll ditch the beanbags in a second.” They both laugh, and it feels good. It feels like summer again, despite the chilly air outside. Despite the fact that Stanley is over 3,000 miles away. 

Her bad dreams still hang over her, but at the moment they don’t seem quite as heavy as they did ten minutes ago. 

  
  
  
  


She has the same awful dreams the next night, but this time Stan doesn't pick up. She calls Ben and Bill— no answer from them either. She imagines one of their parents answering and wonders if she should just give it up— they really  _ are  _ just nightmares, and nobody wants to be woken up in the middle of the night. 

Eddie answers. "Hello," he says, "may I ask who is calling?"

She's so relieved that she gasps, one hand clutching at her chest.

All Eddie hears is breathing. "Listen, if this is some pervert I'll have you know that I am tracing the call—"

"Eds, it's me."

"Bev? Beverly!" Eddie practically chirps. “Oh, it’s so good to hear from you. Is Portland okay? I heard that there was recently an outbreak of norovirus in Oregon so you should really make sure you know where your food is being prepared—”

“Thanks, Eds, I will,” she says, cutting him off. Obviously, Eddie is fine. He isn’t dying or in horrible danger like he was in her dream. He's... he's Eddie. And she misses him more than she can say. 

  
  
  
  


It's strange. She doesn't forget them gradually, like an old photograph fading over time. It's sudden. One morning, Beverly wakes up and even though she remembers her nightmares, she doesn't remember who was in them. 

Every night, Beverly finds herself plagued by nightmares involving people she can’t remember, faces she doesn’t recognize. She wakes full of fear and an overwhelming sense of loss. And somehow, over time, it just becomes routine. She sleeps. She dreams. She wakes.

Life goes on. 

  
  
  


Beverly jolts awake in bed, a name caught in her throat. She wants to scream; she wants to cry. The unknown name slips her mind, forgotten completely now that she’s awake. “Sweetheart.” Tom’s hand on her thigh, on her waist. “What’s wrong?”

“N-nothing,” she says, trying to force her hands to stop shaking. “Bad dream.”

“Hm.” His hand glides up her thigh toward her silky pajama shorts. “Well, since we’re both up,” Tom says, leering at her. 

Bev sighs. “Not now, Tom.” 

His hand tightens on her leg. “Sorry, I think I heard you wrong. You wanna try that again?”

Beverly swallows, thinking about blood and birds and dark, dirty sewers. “I’m tired.”

“I’m fucking tired, too, but you woke  _ me _ up,” Tom says. His fingers inch higher. “Well?”

“Fine,” she says, lowering herself down on the bed. 

  
  
  
  


In her dream, the man takes off his watch first. He takes off his pants and his shirt, his socks, his underwear, and he leaves them all in a pile while the bathwater runs. Beverly’s dreamed about this same man before. She doesn’t know his name, but she knows, somehow, who he is— his dry and somewhat odd sense of humor, his love of birdwatching, his strict adherence to logic. 

She watches him climb into the bathtub. She’s had this dream before, many times. It always ends the same. Tonight is no different. 

( _ Everything is different tonight _ .) 

  
  
  


It turns out the dreams are worse when she remembers who’s in them. 

She sees Richie with blood pooling around his head. She sees Mike, his eyes vacant and unseeing. She sees Bill gasping his last breath. Beverly wakes up in her room in the Derry Town House with tears in her eyes. 

“Shit,” she whispers, pushing her hands through her hair.  _ Pull it together, Bev. _ She makes her way downstairs to fix herself a Captain and Coke. She’s not alone. 

Richie waves at her from the bar over his tumbler of whiskey. “Can’t sleep either?” 

She nods and grabs the bottle of spiced rum. “Nightmares.” 

“Ooh, was I in them?” 

Beverly glares at him before pouring her drink. “Yeah, you were in them,” she says. “You’re always in them.” 

“Raunchy.” Richie sips his whiskey. “You ever have any, you know, dirty dreams about me?” 

Nonchalantly, she says, “Yeah, sometimes I dream that your dick falls off in the middle of one of your comedy shows.” 

“That’s so weird; I’ve had that exact dream.” 

She can’t help herself; she laughs. Richie was always able to do that, goddamn him. He could make her laugh even when she wanted to cry. 

At least that hasn’t changed in 27 years. 

At the end of everything, the remaining Losers slump back to the Derry Town House to pass out for a few hours. Bev doesn't even make it to the shower; she's too tired. She kisses Ben on her way to her room and flops down on top of the covers. Within seconds, she's out. 

For the first time in 27 years, she doesn't have any nightmares. 


End file.
